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Universidade Federal de Minas Gerais, Belo Horizonte. . time corresponding to the starting date of the path construction, were removed and labeled as batch 5. .. Rojas J. W. J., Consoli N. C. y Heineck K. S. (), Durabilidad de un suelo contaminado y tratado con cemento portland. E-mail: [email protected] Factores de riesgo para nuevas caídas accidentales en ancianos atendidos en un centro ambulatorio 4RN, Ph.D. FURG, Brazil. email: [email protected] thebluetones.info Receipt date: September 22, en el ambiente doméstico (7/15), tapetes dispersos por el suelo de la casa. .. Belo Horizonte: Coopmed; En esta exposición hablaré sucesivamente de: 1) los inmigrantes en la ciudad; 2) los . brasileñas, entre las cuales Sâo Paulo, Rio de Janeiro y Belo Horizonte. .. de la redefinición de usos del suelo, y fuerzan a los inmigrantes a salir de la.
After taking the samples out the oven, they were immersed in a tank with water for 24 hours, then removed from the water and superficially dried with a slightly wet cloth, weighed before 3 minutes have passedthereby determining how much water was absorbed by the blocks.
Rupture of the blocks 2. The durability test by wetting and drying complies with the Brazilian standard NBR Soil-Cement - Durability Test by Wetting and Dryingwhich determines the mass loss, the volumetric variation and the humidity variation resulting from the wetting and drying cycles in three samples blocksidentified as no.
Then, the three samples were subjected to six wearing cycles, which consisted of the following steps: The NBR standard refers to the brushing process with intensity of 15 N on the surface of a cylindrical sample. It states that the lateral surface requires 18 to 20 vertical brushings, with the brush placed with its lengthwise axis parallel to the lengthwise axis of the body of the sample.
Each base is brushed four times, two in one sense and the other two in the sense crosswise to the previous ones. Since the tested blocks had a rectangular parallelepiped shape, instead of a cylindrical one, the standard was adjusted so that the number of brushings was proportional to each side of the block.
Thus, each supporting side of the block was brushed eight times, since these sides 12 cm x 25 cm suffer direct load on the pavement, Figure 5b. The lateral sides 6. The brushing and cooling of the blocks must be done within one hour.
The values of mass and volume obtained during the six cycles allowed calculating the variation of volume and humidity of block no.Horizontes del suelo
The blocks were installed and distributed within a lateral confinement using edge courses and concrete beams 3 m long and 15 cm wide and high placed transversally every 3 meters approximately, to prevent blocks from sliding down Marchioni et al.
Figure 6a shows the construction process on site, and details the basket weave distribution of the block and the installation of the edge courses and transversal beams. The blocks were laid in headers, in a basket weave configuration, on a sand bed of 5. The sand bed had a porosity of approx.
Risk Factors for new accidental falls in elderly patients at traumatology ambulatory center
The joints of the blocks were filled with fine sand, which allowed the water to percolate to the sand bed through the joints. Results and discussions Table 2 shows the results obtained in the compressive strength tests for batches 1 to 4 at 7, 14 and 28 days, for batch 5 at days when they were laid down in the path and for batch 6 at days following molding blocks removed from the pavement. This Table also presents the results of the water absorption test and the durability test by wetting and drying, for the different batches.
The results of Table 2 concerning the variation of compressive strength for blocks of different ages are shown in Figure 9where it is possible to observe increased strength as blocks grow older.
As mentioned earlier, the homogenization in the mixer took longer and the mass tended to dry. The removed blocks batch 6aged approx. Test results for the different batches Figure 9.
Conclusions Results indicate that blocks molded with higher contents of water and in the mixer batches 1 to 6 presented, in general, less compressive strength than those molded manually batch 7.
Probably, the water-cement ratio and the reactions resulting thereof is the cause of this strength variation. The use of blocks in the pavement and the influence of environmental conditions did not reduce the strength nor increase the water absorption and mass loss.
The simple compressive strength increased with the molding age, oscillating from 9 MPa at day molding to 11 MPa at day molding and 12 MPA blocks removed from the pavement at day molding. Thus, it is possible to confirm that blocks presented an adequate behavior when subjected to light pedestrian traffic and weathering conditions. Acknowledgements The authors wish to express their gratitude for the scientific start-up scholarship granted by the following development agencies: Universidae Federal de Londrina: Journal of Materials in Civil Engineering, v.
Down here, in the bar district, the scents of hot concrete and sweat and cheap aerosol deodorant surrounded him like a toxic cloud. It was better than being at one of the sky bars. He looked at the one clearing the trees to his right. A party at its peak lit up the cloud cover in shades of pink and neon green. He gradually became aware of a presence at his side - a woman. She was making eyes at him. Red cocktail dress, white face powder. He glanced down once at his bare ring finger, and she decided that was her cue.
The scars were too fresh - all of them. Alexandra Winkels I try to keep my balance as I stagger across the terrace, trying to keep one foot in front of the other, my field of vision blurring in and out of focus. I block out these thoughts and manage to sit down steadily on the edge of the balcony, overlooking part of the city, the starry night sky an imposing view looking down on me, condemning my actions, judging my motives. All I wanted was fresh air. I can hear people talking inside my apartment, laughing, having fun at the party me and my husband Daniel were hosting.
I laugh acidly at the situation. The flashing lights of another, surely larger and wilder, party in the distance seem as alluring as they do accessible. I stretch my arm and wave my fingers; I can feel liveliness, the vibration of souls as lost and confused as my own, giving their sins away to the music.
Oh, it is all so close. It all lies just at the tip of my fingers, peace and chaos, intertwined, my own disaster following suit. I pull my arm away, silence.
It is all an illusion, thousands of miles away, always unreachable. I feel myself begin to shiver. The cold, metal bar which stops my body from precipitating onto the dark, hard, concrete under me feels like an icy torture above my waist. How can I care? I slide under the metal bar, sitting straight on the other side.
Nothing is separating me from a mortal fall now. I feel steady, confident almost. For once, my life is the result of having achieved a perfect balance.
I wonder, just for a second, what it would feel like to let myself slip away into the abyss of uncertainty, and it seems as easy to me in that moment as sliding down a toboggan, my parents waiting at the end, arms open. I shudder at the dark energy consuming me. My black nail polish gleams like a deadly, foreshadowing force as I slide back behind the metal bar.
A couple walks hand in hand down the street beneath me. Their elevated tone suggests an argument, a heated one, and I feel like an intruder lurking in the shadows; I am invading the scene of a life which is not mine to star in.
The woman is visibly upset, and pulls away from the male figure holding her purse, whispering angrily about the inadequacy of the moment. I wonder why she would use that word; The Street is deserted. She cannot possibly know they have an audience I smile in the darkness and squint my eyes to distinguish the couple from the mesh of shadows around them, in the dim illumination provided by three lonely streetlights.
The area under one of the streetlights is dimmer than the rest. They stand under it, and I wonder why. I soon realise it is not just a fight I am witnessing, it is a goodbye.
They slowly come together, their uncertain steps separating them by a good fifty centimetres. She is whispering, and unknowingly I lean forward to hear what she is saying, gasping in horror when I realise I am sitting on the literal edge of a building.
My sleuthing surely must have death as a boundary. I cannot help but wonder. I begin to construct a narrative in my head. Why would such a beautiful woman feel lonely? I hear the tone of the discussion shift from a lulling sadness to an overwhelming aggressiveness, the distance between them tingling with the remainder of forgotten memories and blurred sentiments.
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The man is shouting with desperation, the woman is deaf with indifference. No matter how far I may be I feel closer to them than ever. I can clearly from afar see the remains of a torn curtain of passion between them, in the present merely a piece of cloth blackened and consumed by a slow fire throughout the years.
To them it is now barely an illusion, a string keeping both their lives together Like she said, separate. Separate people, with separate lives, in separate worlds. A wave of guilt hits me like a crumbling wall from above. This moment is so intimate, so catastrophic for them both that a stranger should not be experiencing their heartbreak from a balcony like a morbid observer. The man is now weeping, grasping her head, pulling off her scarlet headband accidentally in the process.
I watch her look away, trying to contain her tears, turning her back on the man ever so slightly. The man takes advantage of this split-second of loneliness to quickly shove her headband into his suit pocket, crumpled and creased, yet a last desperate attempt at conserving something of her lover. I wonder what he will do with her headband if they do part ways. Will he lay it on her pillow at night, pretend her hair is still underneath it in the morning? Will he use it to wipe away his tears, as a reminder of the fatidic night where they realised they had nothing left in common, as a consolation that he will at least always safeguard something of hers even if just her headband?
Before I realise it, I am crying myself. How can an emotion so pure, Love, end in the saddest of tales? The rest of their words are lost to me in the thick night air; I can barely make out their murmurs from the traffic, of streets so far away from here that they almost seem normal. It is clearly a goodbye hug. Will she ever regret ending a life together, no matter how long or short, passionate or dull, under the weakest Streetlight of an anonymous street?
One day this Streetlight will falter, its bulb will burn out. Will I be watching, from this same balcony, remembering this same couple, I wonder? As abruptly as they interrupted my silent meditation they jump into their car and drive away into the night. A shiny Renault Megane, a trail of disillusionment behind it. I am left alone with my thoughts once again; me, and the metal bar, and the balcony, and the Street.
I imagine what it would feel like screaming down onto the line of parked cars and adjacent houses. To pierce the silent night with a noise so loud its echoes would stop the city from ever remembering Silence again. I sigh with the leftovers of a burning desire.
Will I regret not doing so? I cry out for the couple-no-more, so loudly it hurts, so loudly it pains my lungs and my integrity and my sense of decency. The streetlights disintegrate, glass windows shatter, the lights in the distance stop flashing for a split-second: I have never felt freer in my entire life.
The burning sensation in my throat reminds me that I have caused complete annihilation around me for one single moment, one defining, tangible instant in which Power pulsed through my veins instead of blood. I wipe away the remaining tears in my eyes, and realise at least an hour has passed.
I have to return to my own party, people are probably wondering where I am. I stretch once I am on solid ground again, making my way down the same stairs which had led up to my small adventure. I remember them again for a second; the disillusioned Couple, the dark Street, the scarlet Headband, the dimmest Streetlight. I plaster a fake smile on my face as I enter my living room once again, reapplying my MAC Cosmetics lipstick before facing a welcome committee of three of my friends, immediately gasping about my runny makeup and cold skin.
I cannot help but think of how trivial their concerns suddenly seem, how distant and irrelevant. I feel the need to find my husband, Daniel, to look into his tumultuous eyes yet feel his solid reassurance. I need to feel loved. I make my way between the noisy crowds, inspecting suit after suit, face after face, saying hello after goodbye.
I finally spot Daniel near the window, the Streetlight from before visible on the street behind him, casting a lonely shadow. His handsome countenance reflects nothing but seriousness as he engages in conversation with a man I do not recognize. The twisted reminder of the Streetlight and the couple under it drives my desire to see Daniel even further. I cannot help but feel like the most egotistical person in the world as I make my way towards him. How narcissistic of me is it to strive to find reassurance in my own relationship after witnessing a failed one?
I convince myself not to care as I stand less than a metre away from Daniel, my arms wide open, my love for him almost a need, clear in the desperate rhythm of my high heels against the marble floor. He spots my approach and gives me a smile which makes the man he is engaged in conversation with to stand by, and me to stop dead in my tracks before reaching my final destination; His embrace.
His smile is one of sadness, my expression one of confusion. Everyone around us falls into a sudden silence. The tension around us dawns on me with such force I have to make a large effort not to fall onto my knees. I gasp, bringing my hand to my mouth in shock, tears welling up in my eyes as I struggle to block out all the sounds around me. Daniel slowly removes my hand from my quivering lips, taking it in his, and I realise how cold his skin is. Almost as cold as mine. Almost as if he, too, had been out in the freezing night air.
Our eyes meet, and I cannot continue the charade. My entire world begins to slowly crack, the crowds around us to dissolve. Daniel reaches into his suit pocket, pulling out a scarlet red headband. Separate people, and we led separate lives, in separate worlds. Through the window behind him, I see the Streetlight, our Streetlight, the dimmest Streetlight in the entire street, begin to falter. Its light becomes dimmer and dimmer, until it finally burns out.
Alix Heugas May had finally arrived. The first rays of light came dancing through the windows, bringing with them some warmth in the hospital room.
The curtains were swaying in the slight breeze welcoming a magpie to the window who after peering into the room for a bit, appeared to lose interest and flew off.
The TV was on and an old woman was sitting in front of it, staring fixedly at the screen. She was completely still, like a wax statue, on whom time had painted the wrinkles on her hands and face. Someone knocked at the door and a caregiver entered carrying a food tray. I turn my head to look at the tall blonde man with lovely blue eyes standing by the door and a smile creaks in the corners of my mouth as I recognise the man who often comes take care of me.
What bland food have you got for me today? He then sits in front of me and starts feeding me the tasteless peas. This was our little ritual. As my caretaker, it is his duty to feed, dress, help me go to the toilet and keep me company. Nobodyin the hospital has the same bond as the one we share. Despite the joke, it is true that I cannot recall any family member visiting me.
Not that I have a very big one, but the situation was such that the memories of them had become cloudy. Whenever I try to think of them, my mind would just shut off. I search in my memories, but instead of finding them, I just see black. Later in the day he takes me out to a garden. They say the warm weather is supposed to help old people like me but I would rather stay indoors.
He is by my side chatting on about the different species of plants situated around us. It is very interesting. I somehow recall knowing at one point in my life a great deal about plants. I remember preparing some in a room with an elderly man, even older than myself! But as soon as I start chasing after a memory, it seems to run away, vanishing in the dust of my mind. I have always held an admiration for the different sorts of flowers I come across and the brilliant magnolia bush in front of me holds my attention.